


Wrongly, Right

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattoo Artist Ian Gallagher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: User Silentpeaches posted a list of SoulMate Prompts of Tumblr and one spoke to me."You remove your tattoo because you hate the idea of someone dictating who you can be with for the rest of your life and the person who’s removing it happens to be your soulmate and they’re torn between letting you know and just not bringing it up because you kind of went there because you didn’t want a soulmate and vice versa."
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 63
Kudos: 223





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey hated his soulmate tattoo with his whole heart. Ever since the thing had appeared overnight on his forearm when he was thirteen, he’d been torn. Half of him was always looking for the combination of meaning behind the symbols and words that would resolve into whoever his soulmate was, the arcane imagery suddenly becoming a coherent narrative.

But the other half of him, his father’s son, had tried everything to rub it off, cut at it, cover and marr the fine details. Anything Mickey could hide was laid bare by the fucking tattoo. Things he couldn’t afford to show the world. Why couldn’t it have come in somewhere easy to hide, like his ass?

Terry had loved it, the first time he’d seen it, Mickey walking blearily into the kitchen, bare-armed for nearly the last time in his adult life. 

“‘No future’ means nothing to worry about. You ain’t gonna run off or be pussy whipped like yer good-for-nothin’ cousins.”

But Terry hadn’t been looking closely, thank fuck. The  [ child holding the balloon ](https://banksy.newtfire.org/img/graffiti/no_future.jpg) was clearly a little boy. If there was a figure in your soulmate tattoo, it represented your soulmate, that was the rule. Ergo, Mickey’s soulmate was- 

Mandy had seen the child clearly, her eyes wide and scared every time he left his arm bare. Which he didn’t, not anymore. It was all henlys and hoodies and flannels and jackets, even in the summer when he was sweating his balls off.

That’s part of what finally decided him on the cover-up. It was late December and while Mickey was comfortable in the winter, he couldn’t face the prospect of another summer like the one he’d just passed, hiding inside and dripping every time he stepped out, squinting into the sun.

Iggy’d given him the referral, when Mickey had casually asked about getting professional ink work done.

“There’s a new place on Trumbull, cheap as fuck.”

That was about as ringing an endorsement as a Milkovich was capable of, so Mickey had scoped the place out. Phoenix, Ink operated out of a converted basement under a typical South Side house. Maybe the house’s lack of upkeep was a sign that the tattoo shop was sketchy, but Mickey was naturally suspicious of anyplace that was too clean. 

“You want to  _ what _ ?” The woman’s voice on the phone when he’d called has been brusque, but his request had managed to shock her. 

“Soulmate tattoo covered up, ain’t fuckin’ gonna say it again.”

Instead of asking him stupid questions, she’d just booked him in for a consultation the following afternoon at 4. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You my four o’clock?”

At 4, it was nearly fully dark, and the snow on the ground helped cement the illusion that the day was nearly over, despite Mickey’s only having woken up a few hours earlier. He was on the sidewalk outside Phoenix, Ink, smoking and thinking.

Covering the tattoo wouldn’t prevent him from finding and recognizing his soulmate someday, but it could stop his soulmate from knowing for sure that Mickey was the one. Not that any of that mattered to Mickey. He’d given up hope of being with his soulmate, not because he thought they weren’t out there, but because of what it would mean if he did. If his soulmate was who or what he thought they were, he didn’t want them, didn’t need them, and couldn’t fuckin afford to find them. 

_ Him _ , he scolded himself. Couldn’t afford to find  _ him _ . Because even if Mickey wouldn’t or couldn’t admit the truth to anyone else, he tried not to fuckin lie to himself. 

A firey red head popped out of the heavy door to Phoenix, Ink, looking up and down the sidewalk before settling on Mickey.

“You my four o’clock?”

Mickey took another drag off the cigarette and gave a short nod. 

“K. Finish that up and come on in, I’m almost ready for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do the work, get the cash.

Ian had wiped down the bench and chair for his next client, and was sitting browsing art sites online for inspiration when the guy from the sidewalk finally came in. After a glance at Fiona on the phone, those blue eyes found Ian and he stalked over, a wide legged, rolling gait.

He waved a hand to indicate the chair, and the guy sat uncomfortably, like he wasn’t used to sitting down properly. _Weird_.

But it wasn’t Ian’s place to judge his clientele. He was here to provide a service and get paid, not hear their life stories or listen to them cry. _Do the work, get the cash._ That was Fiona’s mantra.

“You’re looking for a coverup? The knuckle tats, I’m guessing?” Unlike Ian’s own colorful full sleeves, the guy only had the one set of tattoos visible, a clearly home-done set of words across his knuckles, FUCK U-UP. _Very Southside._

The guy frowned and looked down at his hands. “Huh? No, those stay. It’s- uh, it’s my soulmate tattoo.”

Ian caught his breath. Obscuring a soulmate tattoo, he’d heard rumors of people who’d wanted it, but never met anyone who’d gone through with the process. It was supposed to be extremely painful, both physically and in the woo-woo kind of way. Something about the universe complaining about thwarted destiny and shit.

_Stop judging_ , he reminded himself. _Do work, get cash._

“Wanna show me what we’re talking about here?”

The guy shrugged off his coat and rolled up one sleeve. The tattoo was lovely, even if the content wasn’t. The whole tat was only about four by four, so at least it wasn’t a whole chest piece Ian had to cover.

“Mind if I take a closer look?” He wanted to get a better idea of what he could possibly put over it to obscure [the gray background, the garish red words, and the person](https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/19mw9cAWJyyeLS-G5ctIZCB5YzL1weNnvC0ab8FQ8ysg/edit?usp=sharing).

The guy gave another little hunch of his shoulders that Ian took as acquiescence, so he leaned in, studying the flesh. The first thing he noticed was that the guy smelled good. Not like cologne, or soap. There was a whiff of tobacco smoke, and maybe a note of weed too. But under that, he smelled like clean sweat, a little bit like worn leather. Ian realized he hadn’t even introduced himself, but wanted to focus on the art first.

He saw the issue, the reason the guy wanted a coverup. It didn’t take a genius to see that the small child on his arm was clearly male. _This guy, though? Gay?_

“I can do it.” The words slipped out before Ian had even consciously decided what to put over it. “But it’s gonna hurt like a bitch and take a few sessions. And it won’t be cheap, either.”

Another shrug. The guy pulled a wad of cash out of one pocket, large and small bills all mixed together. “How much?”

In his mind, Ian did some quick math. Three hour sessions, at least four sessions. “Bout twelve hours. Five hundred.”

“That’s forty bucks an hour!” A scowl had come over the guy’s face, thick brows pushing down to the blue eyes Ian wanted to get lost in… He shook himself. 

“Yeah, something like that. It takes twice as much ink to do a coverup, and more work on the design side.”

“Just- just cover it all black or some shit.”

“That won’t work,” Ian patiently explained. He was used to having to justify his prices, but it still rankled. “Maybe for a year or two, but then that red will come through. I have to work the design into something else, that way it looks like part of the new design, and you don’t have to come back and get it redone to hide your shit, again.”

The man’s mouth had been open, probably to continue protesting, but it snapped shut at that.

“Look, I get it.” Ian continued. “Southside, I’m from here. But you don’t have to do this. It’s gonna hurt like hell, and cost a lot, can’t you just- I dunno. Wear a shirt? Come out?”

“What fuckin’ world do you live in?” The guy had stood up angrily, pushing his chair back with a loud screech. Without even letting Ian reply, explain, anything, he stormed out.

Ian hadn’t even gotten to introduce himself, so caught up in the desire to see the tat, followed by the tense conversation.

“Ok, who did what to Mickey Milkovich?” Fiona called to him, as the guy slammed the shop’s heavy door.

“I didn’t do anything to him! Just asked a few normal questions,” Ian lied. He knew better, he scolded himself.

_Telling a guy, a Southside guy, to just_ _come out ?_

“Think he’ll be back?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. 

“Shame. We coulda used that kinda good word of mouth.”

“Seriously, Fi? You want every gang-banger and drug dealer in here looking for skulls and guns?”

“I want anyone who has cash,” she replied firmly, looking pointedly down at the mostly empty appointment book.

He took her point, and went back to his station. 

Milkovich? He remembered Mandy from school, and everyone knew Terry, but Mickey? A quick perusal of social media brought up nothing: the guy was a ghost.

Which made sense, if he had to hide a secret as big as that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 20% up front.

Back at home, Mickey was pacing in his small room. He was stuck between two impossibilities. He couldn’t risk having the tattoo any longer. Terry would murder him, slowly, and no one would ever find his body. But he also didn’t have the five hundred dollars to give some goofy looking ginger.

Could he get the $500? Run a scam, or some shit? 

He emptied his pockets, and pulled out a small wad of cash he’d squirreled in the back of his closet. 

He had just over two hundred now. Maybe it was enough for the tattoo guy to get started, and he could, like, find the rest later.

Without thinking too hard, he called the same number he’d used to schedule the initial appointment.

“Good afternoon, Phoenix, Ink. This is Fiona, what can I do for ya?”

“You need all the cash upfront?”

“Excuse me?”

Mickey rolled his eyes where he stood, alone in his room. 

“I was in today for a- for a fuckin’ consultation. The guy gave me a quote, and I needta know if you need all the cash upfront, or if I can give you, like, a deposit to get started?”

“Which artist were you working with, sir?”

He grimaced, trying to think of a non-gay way to describe the guy, other than hot as shit.

“Carrot-top? Freckles, pale skin, fucking alien looking?”

“Ian, right, ok. Hold on, please.”

At least there wasn’t any terrible hold music, just silence on the line as he waited. Minutes passed, and he lit a cigarette to help calm his nerves. Finally the woman’s voice was back in his ear.

“Ian said he needs 20% up front, but he can take the rest on completion. When would you like to schedule your appointment?”

The relief that flowed through his body was profound as he automatically finished the conversation.

It felt like every element of his plan to get this fuckin thing off his body was ten times as hard as it should be. Was the universe fucking with him? Mad that he wasn’t even looking for his soulmate? Truth be told, Mickey was pretty sure he had no soulmate. There was no space in his life for anyone else, let alone a dude. No room for fucking, let alone softness. Everything in his life that even resembled a feeling had been relentlessly crushed under the cruel bootheel of Terry’s violence and machinations.

In order to have a soulmate, one needed a soul. Mickey had been forced to do so many terrible things in the name of self-preservation and hiding that he’d developed a new and appalling worry: What if the reason he hadn’t found his soulmate was because he had no soul?

What if all the things he’d done had slowly but surely ripped his soul away, leaving him nothing but a lonely husk, a sad pawn for his father to order around and beat on when the impulse arose.

_ Fuck. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lately, it almost felt like something was coming, but he could only hope it was soon.

Ian was staring at his own  [ soulmate tattoo ](https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/1l6UnpJoSdiV_FJI6lh7yT7qajNYpmM7cswYxnHk-8gY/edit?usp=sharing) where it was emblazoned on his ribs. He had to use the mirror, since it wrapped around his torso, the raised fingers pointing to a heart nearly covering his own, the lowered hand pointed to the blue butterfly on his ass-cheek. It was the biggest soulmate tattoo he’d ever heard of, but it was easily hidden in just a tank top and shorts, unlike his recent client. 

He’d looked at his tattoo often, studying the lines, trying to interpret the symbols. Finger guns, a face hidden under a hood, a heart being denied, a blue butterfly, floating off the ground. 

There were plenty of websites claiming to decipher soulmate tattoos, and as a lark, Ian had perused them, back when his tattoo first showed up in early adolescence.

The hand gestures could be violent, or they could ASL for J. Or they could mean music, or amazement. 

The blue butterfly could symbolize a person's essence, or soul, either past, present or future. The color blue in a butterfly was often thought to symbolize joy, color or a change in luck. Sometimes a blue butterfly was viewed as a wish granter. Was Ian the wish granter, or his soulmate?

Floating indicated a desire to be above all the stress in someone’s life, or it could mean the person was seeking a new beginning. 

At least the covered face and hood were clear- his soulmate had to hide some part of himself. 

The pattern was frustratingly elusive. That was normal, your tattoo was only supposed to make sense after you’d met and gotten to know the person, the pieces suddenly sitting together smoothly and obviously.

But when would Ian meet him? It had been a decade since his tattoo had appeared, and despite an early and active exploration of his sexuality, no one had ever come close to having traits from his tattoo, or having a tattoo that Ian reflected at all. Heck, most of his early “boyfriends” had women in their tattoos.

He laid back on his twin bed, in the room he still shared with his younger brothers, staring pensively at the ceiling. 

Lately, it almost felt like something was coming, but he could only hope it was soon.

_ Soon _ .


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So if I meet - the person. They can still recognize it?”

Mickey’d showed up late for his first appointment, but Ian hadn’t really minded. He’d been busy sketching, touching up the ideas he wanted to show him, so when the shorter man skulked into the shop, Ian perked up.

“Hey, Mick, how’s it going?”

Mickey looked around, as if he thought Ian was talking to some other person named Mick. But he was the only customer in the shop- Fiona was at the counter, going over a receipt book and wiping sweat from her brow. The place was baking, like a sauna.

“You guys open a hell-mouth or some shit?”

Ian shrugged. “Thermostat’s busted. It’s better than being cold, I guess.”

Mickey had clearly stopped paying attention. “Fuckin’ fantastic. We gonna do this, or what?”

Ian managed to restrain his eye roll. “Sure, sure.” The customer was always right, even when he wanted to obscure a beautiful piece of art designed specifically to lead him to his soulmate.

“I have a few ideas for you, if you wanna take a look?”

With an expression of surprise, Mickey leaned over to examine the sketches Ian had fanned out. 

He peered at the first one for only a moment before dismissing it. “Too gay.”

“Seriously?” Ian raised one eyebrow and stared at Mickey, hard. 

“The point is to look less gay, Orphan Annie, not more.”

Ian snapped his mouth shut. Mickey clearly wasn’t trying to insult him, it seemed more like self-directed hatred than actual homophobia. Ian whisked the offending design away, and pushed another one front and center for Mickey’s inspection.

It took a few minutes of studying, and Mickey’s face relaxing minutely, but he still didn’t pass judgement, so Ian piped up.

“This one might be a good fit. Covers that shit up, but manly-like.”

The stark blue eyes shot up, meeting Ian’s own and then passing over his face, assessing it. He opened that pouty mouth a few times, then closed it, chewing on his bottom lip with a sharp, white incisor.

Ian let him take it in, consider. He got the feeling Mickey wasn’t often speechless. 

The man seemed to recover quickly enough once he’d made his judgement of Ian’s face complete. “What’s it mean?”

Ian leaned on the counter, arms resting in a square that he knew highlighted his upper body. “It’s basically the same as the original, just more discrete.” It seemed like that’s what Mickey would be looking for in a soulmate, discretion, so Ian could tell himself he wasn’t  _ blocking fate _ , per se, only adjusting it, refining it further.

“So if I meet - the person. They can still recognize it?” Mickey probably hadn’t meant to use gender-neutral pronouns; Ian could read between the lines. As much as Mickey felt that he had to cover his soulmate tattoo, he still also wanted to connect with his soulmate. It pained Ian, to think of those two warring needs inside one man, but he couldn’t lie. Not about this, not about something so serious.

“Maybe. If you recognize theirs, then, maybe, yeah.” That was the best he could do and the most reassurance Ian could offer. A big ol’ maybe.

“Ok, yeah. This one.” The coverup was fairly complex, lots of detailed line work. Ian had kept it restrained, only adding the things in the same color palate Mickey’s tattoo already had: greyscale and shades of carnelian. He’d added some red stargazer lilies to obscure some of the blank space and text, and decided on four different, semi overlapping mandala-type designs. They weren’t copies of existing images, so it wasn’t quite cultural appropriation, and they did a good job fooling the eye and disguising some of the original tattoo’s elements. He’d kept a part of the text clear, ‘Future,’ hoping it would help Mickey, if not find his soulmate, at least focus on hope. Overall, he was really proud of the design, looking forward to seeing it come to life on that pale canvas.

Design agreed upon, Ian explained the basics of the process, while Mickey made bored faces and impatient hand gestures. Finally, Mickey was sat in Ian’s tattoo chair, Ian sitting on a roller stool next to him, tattoo gun in hand. 

“Ready?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

They began, Ian adjusting his purple gloves and working carefully, blotting away excess ink and blood every so often, Mickey gritting his teeth, obviously uncomfortable.

Folk wisdom said that any kind of process that messed with soulmate tattoos was uniquely, exquisitely painful, but Mickey seemed to be getting through it in silence, not pestering Ian with small talk or questions, just letting him work.

Soon, Ian was deeply zoned in, the soothing rhythm of the gun and details hypnotically satisfying. It wasn’t until he felt a sudden twanging ache in his back that he straightened up and glanced at the clock, shocked at how much time had passed. Three hours was about as long as he felt comfortable working in the heat.

“That’s it for today.”

Mickey looked down in surprise. “You ain’t done?”

Ian bristled at the implicit criticism. This was  _ art  _ he was making here, not a fucking piece of flash work. “It’s gonna take a few sessions. You’re a bleeder.”

The only response was a grunt, as Mickey closed his eyes, rolling his neck. Ian turned, beginning to clean up his work tray, letting Mickey come back to the world on his own time.

Quiet words surprised Ian, as Mickey slipped away.

“I’ll bring more cash next time.”

He’d left a wad of crumpled bills on the counter, and Ian slowly gathered them up. For a moment, he wondered about that  _ No Future.  _ About how many people had those types of thoughts plague them at some point in their lives. Must be pretty common. It’s not like Ian was the  _ only  _ one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These pieces apart meant nothing, but together? They could mean anyone, but they could also mean… him.

Mickey was back for his next, and hopefully final session at Phoenix, Ink. The work Gallagher had done so far wasn’t quite enough to obscure what fate had written on his skin: Mickey needed more.

Walking in the door, a wave of damp heat smacked Mickey in the face. Ian saw him and grimaced apologetically.

“Sorry, heat’s still busted. We can reschedule, if you want?” The redhead had on a skimpy tank top and board shorts, and was already well on his way to sweating through them. Mickey quickly peeled off his jacket and hung it on the hook by the door

“Nah, man. Let’s get this over with.”

Ian waved him back to the semi-private curtained area where he already had the materials and tools set out, plus a tall, sweating glass of water. If anything, it was even hotter back here than up front, despite a fan working overtime to recirculate the fiery air.

They got down to work, Ian carefully inspecting the site to make sure everything was on track, and Mickey bearing the soft touches and tattoo needle alike with gritted teeth. Soon, both men were dripping with sweat. Mickey just closed his eyes, but the vision of Ian’s muscles bunching and tensing through the thin, sweat-soaked material of his shirt persisted behind his closed eyelids.

To dispel the image that was far too carnal for his liking, Mickey popped his eyes open, and tried to focus on the out of date calendar on the wall. It showed busty women with many piercings, draped over motorcycles, wearing scraps of black leather. It was exactly what  _ should  _ get his motor running, not the bulging biceps hovering over his chest. 

A droplet of sweat ran down the center of Ian’s forehead, tracking until it hung suspended from the tip of his freckled nose, then fell directly onto Mickey’s skin. It felt inhumanly hot, like he’d been spattered with hot oil, but Gallagher just wiped it away with his little towel and kept working, his rubber gloves making faint sloshing noises as he moved.

Mickey sighed. “Just take your shirt and gloves off, bitch. Fuck, take your shorts off too, so long as you got boxers on or something.”

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” came the muttered reply.

“Don’t look fine. You look like you’re gonna pass out. Take your fucking shirt off.”

Ian set his jaw and pushed on, so Mickey gave up. If the man died because he was too stubborn, well Mickey could just keep his money.

Then the fan died.

Mickey peeked at him, and saw the slow acceptance cross his features. Gallagher pulled back and set the tattoo gun down, slowly peeling his gloves off with a squelch. He rubbed his hands uselessly on his shirt, then yanked it off in one smooth motion that looked oddly practiced to Mickey’s untrained eye. The shirt and gloves ended up crumpled on the floor in the corner, and Mickey got his first good look at Gallagher’s  [ soulmate tattoo ](https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/1l6UnpJoSdiV_FJI6lh7yT7qajNYpmM7cswYxnHk-8gY/edit?usp=sharing) . 

It gave Mickey a shock, and the first chill down his spine felt oddly refreshing in the thick, humid basement air. 

The silence grew awkward, not the least because Ian was unconsciously stroking Mickey’s skin with his bare hand, keeping his skin taut. His fingers were just rubbing, back and forth, giving silent comfort as Mickey bit his lip. To distract himself, he looked at Ian’s soulmate tattoo. Studied it. 

The figure in the hoodie was clearly male, which he’d already expected from Gallagher. What he hadn’t expected was the butterfly’s shade of blue. The blue felt oddly familiar to him, but he kept looking, studying the skin. The hand gestures, the heart, the spray paint can. It all felt  _ familiar _ . Mickey had worked pretty damn hard to remain ignorant of the meanings of various soulmate symbols, but he wasn’t stupid. These pieces apart meant nothing, but together? They could mean anyone, but they could also mean…  _ him _ .

Panic rushed through him, and Mickey sat up, roughly yanking his arm away. “I gotta go.”

Gallagher looked at him stupidly. “But we’re not done?”

“Uh, I don’t have all the cash yet anyway. But I’m good for it!” He was ashamed, even though it was a lie. He had the full amount in his back pocket, finally gathered up through hard work and scheming.

“Yeah, no worries. You can come back- um, tomorrow, I guess?”

Mickey stared at him, wanting to leave, confused and fearful. “Don’t you got other clients?”

“Yeah,” the guy agreed, still looking disappointed. “But I wanna get this one done.”

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, huh?” Mickey knew that wasn’t it at all, and this was only confirmed when Ian didn’t say anything, only gave him a half-smile as Mickey bolted out the door, back into the cool air. 

He’d left his coat behind, but he didn’t need it yet. The tattoo wasn’t covered, either with new ink or ointment and plastic wrap, but he had some at home. The important thing was to get alone and think about what he’d seen and felt. Figure out what to do next.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In and out, get this shit done, before things got worse.

Suspecting the hot tattoo artist’s soulmate image was meant for him was different than being sure of it, Mickey reminded himself for the hundredth time. He was in his room, sprawled on his bed, staring at the posters he’d stuck to the ceiling. Mostly rock and metal shit, but a few other images, tucked in. Things he’d seen in day dreams, or in the moment before waking. 

One small postcard he’d stolen from a museum was a picture of a bronze statue of a Buddist monk, hand held in a specific gesture he’d learned was called  [ Prithvi Mudra ](https://www.yogapedia.com/definition/6853/prithvi-mudra) . It represented healing, strengthening, and stability. All things Mickey desperately craved, knew he could never have.

Another was a page he’d ripped out of one of Mandy’s textbooks, some outsider artist had spray painted a young girl blowing her brains out, but all that came from the  [ explosion was a spray of butterflies ](https://i.etsystatic.com/17867470/r/il/c4e304/2549624396/il_794xN.2549624396_11ix.jpg) . For no reason he could explain, Mickey had painstakingly colored every single insect in the picture a slightly different shade of blue.

Fuck. 

Ok, so he had recognized  _ some  _ of the images in the guy’s tattoo. And they sort of fit into his: the pop of red, the artistic style and shading, the single person on the same dull shade of gray background. 

He couldn’t very well just never go back to Gallagher, could he? The half-finished tattoo didn’t look so good, and it didn’t hide what Mickey needed hidden. The kid, the human figure, was still clearly visible as male. Could he bluff it? Act like he didn’t see a connection? Would Gallagher say something, if Mickey didn’t? What would Mickey do- could he just laugh it off, threaten him away?

He couldn’t deal with this right now- the whole reason he’d ended up in the shop, seen Gallagher in the first place was cause he needed the tattoo gone, hidden, disguised somehow. The universe was a fucked up place, a joke, if the whole thing was just a ruse to get him to meet his-

Mickey shook his head, in the empty space and quiet of his room. Even thinking it was dangerous. His eyes caught again on the blue butterflies on the ceiling. How he’d always hoped he was the caterpillar, that his shitty life was just the cocoon, and someday he’d get to be someplace else, someplace better, someone better.

But that was a kid’s dream. His life was real, it was shit, and that wasn’t gonna change. Not for him, not for Gallagher, and certainly not for fate.

Another look at the incomplete cover-up decided him. He left a voicemail late that night for Phoenix, Ink, asking for their soonest appointment. In and out, get this shit done, before things got worse.

\---

At Mickey’s third session, things were worse. The godforsaken heat was finally off, but it was totally off, leaving everyone with blue lips and chattering teeth. Everyone else, except him. Now that a part of his mind had accepted the possibility of Gallagher being his, the small touches, even through the latex gloves, felt like fire on his skin. 

It hurt in an entirely new way, like probing the empty hole in your gum after a tooth is pulled. Like something was supposed to be there, and everytime Ian touched him, his body recognized that something was missing. The pain wasn’t the only sensation produced by those fiery places of contact: Mickey’s cock was hard in his jeans, and he was grateful to be sitting with the table covering his lap. Gallagher had reminded him in a casual tone more than once to sit still, stop squirming, was it hurting more today?

“No- not really.” That was all Mickey could stammer out. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to get through this. The tattoo was so close to done, he could tell Gallagher was just touching up little details. 

“You know what butterflies mean?”

What was this- why was the guy tryin’ to start a conversation up now? Rationally he knew it was a distraction technique to help Mickey, but it felt invasive as hell.

“Rebirth, or some shit, right,” Mickey ventured, after a moment.

“Yeah, but also the soul, and a wish granter.”

“Good to know.”

Ian sighed, and put the tattoo gun down for a moment. “Mickey. You’re supposed to ask me what wish my soul needs granted.”

The fuck he was  _ not _ .

“Sounds gay, man.”

A pointed glance at Mickey’s tattoo spoke volumes.

“Look man, I’m not  _ that  _ gay. Not butterflies-and-shit gay.”

“Then you didn’t notice my tattoo’s butterfly is the same shade as your eyes?”

Mickey froze. He hadn’t made that connection, and his whole body was on red alert, suddenly. Quickly he stood and with a jerking motion pulled his coat over the arm Ian had been tattooing. 

“Hey, no- wait! I just meant-”

Mickey didn’t even bother to throw the cash down, practically running out the door. 

\---

Back in the safety of his room again, Mickey looked down at his new  [ tattoo ](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1QNA017ZWbItONXu4yfsGXJTSOZj8QJ08/view?usp=sharing) for the first time, mesmerized by the blooming red that could be bullet wounds, or flowers. He’d watch Ian slowly draw the patterns, but it wasn’t until he saw the whole thing complete that he recognized the artistry, and how Gallagher had managed to add new symbolism. The child was gone, replaced by what looked like a biblical interpretation of an angel: all eyes and wings. The only word left was FUTURE in bold red that matched the wounds slash flowers. It meant hope, Mickey knew, even without asking. The cover-up was about hiding some parts of himself, but showing others.

Gallagher must have done some digging, to figure out what Mickey needed, must now know Mickey well. Too well, for someone he planned to never fuckin’ see again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is why we should only accept cash upfront! No more payment plans for dirty-ass white boys!

Why had he said it? He  _ knew  _ Milkovich was closeted as fuck; he knew the guy was trying to cover up his soulmate tattoo for a reason, also it was incredibly unprofessional to mention or even hint to a client you might be their soulmate.

He could have at least waited, or said something sooner, or - Ian didn’t know. Something  _ different _ , that could have led to a better outcome than Mickey running away, taking the cash with him.

Fiona was livid when he told her. “This is why we should only accept cash upfront! No more payment plans for dirty-ass white boys!”

That last session though. Every prick of the tattoo needle in the other guy’s skin had hurt  _ him.  _ Not on his skin either. Somewhere deeper, someplace he couldn’t point out on an anatomy chart. Like he was the one being injured somehow. The sensation built and built until he couldn’t keep his stupid big mouth shut and he had to say  _ something _ , show some sign that maybe, maybe they were it. Maybe he was it, maybe Mickey was his…

And maybe they were. 

But now he’d never know, because he fully expected to never see the other man again.

\---

A few days passed. Everytime the shop door opened, letting in a cool breeze, a part of Ian’s mind pricked up, on alert. Hoping it might be Mickey.

It never was, obviously. It would be his sister, a customer, his worthless paternal figure, a neighbor, a lost Amazon delivery driver.

He told himself repeatedly to stop being an idiot. But then he’d hear the creak of the door swinging open and he’d be helpless to do anything except swivel his head and stare forlornly until his brain registered that it wasn’t the dark hair and shifty blue eyes he was hoping for.

\---

Weeks passed, and slowly, Ian realized he was depressed, sinking into the black hole of his mind. His body felt heavier, lumpier and leaden. Getting out of bed was hard as the days got shorter and darker. It felt like he woke up and went to work in the dark, spent the day in the windowless basement with the sound of the buzzing needle burrowing its way into his brain, then went back up this room at the end of the day, crashing into bed, the light already gone from the sky. And then did it all again the next day.

On his days off, he stayed in bed, barely able to attend to his daily needs. Hygiene and food fell by the wayside. Really, he marvelled that he was still going to work. But the incessant buzzing of the needle felt anesthetizing by now, like he could just tune out of his body when it was running, float off somewhere else.

Fiona watched him, but didn’t say anything. That had been their arrangement when they started Phoenix, Ink together. He’d live at home but she couldn’t say anything about his bipolar. He took his meds, often dry swallowing them in front of her for spite, and did his job. The spark was gone, though.

His artistry, flair, customer service- it was all buried under the thick blanket of his depression. Luckily, no one came in wanting anything particularly unique, so Ian could simply get by with flash sheets and lettering, lions and butterflies galore. Shit, they paid the bills. 

\---

One morning in late February, Ian opened the shop. It was the only morning he opened by himself, Monday, of course. It was a little later than usual: he’d been having a dream that hadn’t wanted to let him go when his alarm went off.

In his dream, Ian was running down a hallway in an old movie theater, from the 70’s, he thought. The  [ walls, floor, and ceiling ](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c9/b2/ad/c9b2ad78149ac888107558e670762d29.jpg) were all covered with the same red and orange plasticized carpeting, interspersed with darkened doorways and movie posters. He was running, chasing someone he couldn’t see, catching glances at the posters as he rushed past them.  [ Silence of the Lambs ](https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/IxAAAOSwYaFWgJtR/s-l400.jpg) .  [ The Cell ](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/147a0034-26cf-48e5-a11a-a7cbedd421fb/d3ikfl-4521c4d2-616a-4fc0-bb2a-cbaa1b465a94.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3sicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvMTQ3YTAwMzQtMjZjZi00OGU1LWExMWEtYTdjYmVkZDQyMWZiXC9kM2lrZmwtNDUyMWM0ZDItNjE2YS00ZmMwLWJiMmEtY2JhYTFiNDY1YTk0LmpwZyJ9XV0sImF1ZCI6WyJ1cm46c2VydmljZTpmaWxlLmRvd25sb2FkIl19.116a_3qPb0NYwNsJzg_9Sx5tq-v6Q5DarOevb9JWgEs) .  [ Bent ](https://img.reelgood.com/content/movie/688cdab5-9152-4865-bd44-fac50d94f7f3/poster-780.jpg) .  [ The Candyman ](https://ih1.redbubble.net/image.737902395.9998/poster,504x498,f8f8f8-pad,600x600,f8f8f8.u2.jpg) .

All movies that had frightened him as a child, but stunned him visually. Part of his mind had known he was dreaming, because as fast as he pumped his legs, he could tell he wasn’t getting anywhere. He’d fallen, over and over, the sensation of skinning his knees on the rough fibers of the carpeting burned, felt real. But he always got up, ran on, got nowhere, chased no one, fell. 

Then he’d woken up, gasping in his own bed. 

His mind was still traveling down that hallway, curious and lost as he was physically preparing himself for another day of dragging his unwilling body through the motions. He shoveled food into his mouth and went out to the shop. When he realized the door wasn’t swinging smoothly open under his pull, he gave it a testing yank, which moved it a scant few inches, and then it stopped suddenly, as if caught or stuck on some impediment.

There was a plastic bag shoved halfway under the heavy door. Ian bent down and picked it up, wondering at the last moment if it was full of dog shit or something equally disgusting. But it wasn’t.

It was cash. It was the money Mickey owed. But no note.

Holding the ripped plastic bag with the neatly folded bills, Ian was struck with an image of Mickey, sneaking over late at night, when it was coldest and darkest, maybe seeing the light on in Ian’s room. Stuffing the bag under the door securely enough that no one would see it and snag it, maybe standing around and- ah.

There, on the ground, were three smoked cigarette butts. Fiona was obsessive about cleaning up out front, given that they were really working out of a basement.

Mickey had stood here. Stood here for a while, longer than he needed to. Ian was half tempted to touch the butts, see if they were fully cold, maybe press one to his own lips, but he stopped himself. No need to act like a pussy in some Hallmark Soulmate movie.

He let himself into the shop and started turning on lights and ancient computers, letting the autoclaves warm up. Wondering, mind still on the traces of Mickey. Pieces, fitting in place. How long had he been watching, to know Ian opened on Mondays? 

There was only one early appointment, their neighbor Veronica, Vee. She bustled in carrying an iced coffee, her smile filling the room with warmth. She was working on a tribute piece to her family. Ian was glad to see her; she was a safe space, only judgemental in a motherly, loving way.

Halfway through her session, he finally posed the question. “How did you meet your soulmate?”

“Oh, Ian, did you meet someone,” she crooned, as much as anyone could croon while tiny needles were being driven into the sensitive skin of her calf. He’d already finished one side at a previous session: her daughters’ names and an outline of them together. He hadn’t wanted to go too photorealistic, because that always ended up looking uncanny. But he liked what he’d come up with. Now he was doing a symbolic tribute to her husband, Kevin, on the other leg.

“I- sort of? I’m not sure about them, about him. And he didn’t seem sure about me, so I don’t know what to do.”   
  


“I understand.”

“Really?” He peered up at her curiously. “You and Kev seem so into each other. More than usual, even.”

“We are, but it wasn’t always like this for us. I’m not his first, you know.”

Ian was confused.  _ Not his first - what? First sexual partner? Was that a thing, were you supposed to save yourself for your soulmate, because he hadn’t and maybe Mickey knew and that’s why he- _

“Hey, I don’t know where you went but you’ve still got a tattoo gun in your hand next to my skin, so come back, please?” She laughed a little at him, but not unkindly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ian apologized. “I just, you know. I get in my head sometimes. What did you mean, first?”

“First wife. Kev was married before me. They met as kids, and when their tattoos came in, they convinced themselves they fit. Kids do that sometimes, if they’ve grown up together. It usually unravels pretty quickly: for Kev and Sheryl it took lots of on and off shit before they figured it out or admitted it to themselves. They’d fight, split, get lonely, hook up, try again.”

“Does that not happen with true soulmates, too?” Ian was thinking of Frank and Monica and their tumultuous on-and-off drama. 

“It can, but usually not. Anyway, then he met me and the tattoos made sense. More sense: like before, they’d had to work to make the symbols fit. ‘Oh, I had a bear like that when I was a kid,’ instead of ‘oh the bear symbolizes me.’ My Kevvie-bear.” Veronica’s tone was a little dreamy, and Ian knew the endorphins from the tattoo were starting to kick in. 

“Kev fought it; he was still technically married and all. But then the dreams started and he knew.”

“Dreams?” Ian prompted, trying to find out more.

“Didn’t Fiona explain any of this to you? When she met Steve?” Vee was looking down at Ian, studying him intently.

“Not really. I was pretty manic, so maybe I wasn’t listening,” Ian admitted.

“Ok, well if you meet your soulmate and then get pulled apart, you start getting dreams.”

“About them?”

“No, that’s the thing. It’s usually more of that symbolic bullshit. Sometimes you see flashes of missed opportunities.”

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, fuck. _

“Scientists think that’s where humanity came up with a lot of their understanding of stories and mysticism, from the dreams of thwarted soulmates. The dreams continue, get more intense.” She stopped talking suddenly, and Ian looked up from his work, swiping away a spot of blood on her leg.

“And then?”

She met his eye, speaking quietly and seriously. “Eventually they stop. Usually when there’s no hope left.”

_ Would that happen to him and Mickey? Was Mickey having the dreams too, waiting anxiously for them to stop? _ Ian took a deep breath, pushing his worries down. He needed to think, but right now he needed to focus on the work in front of him- this was someone’s skin.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure everything will work out for you two.” Vee reached and rustled his hair. It was meant to be comforting, he knew. Familial. But it felt like one more person dismissing his feelings, telling him what he felt or thought wasn’t real. 

Fuck. He needed to go out and dance with someone, have a guy buy him a drink, just feel good for once. He deserved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I wrote myself into a corner in Chapter 10, so there are now 11 chapters planned.  
> Sorry to anyone who was hoping this would be wrapped up next weekend.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because you’re a fucking closet-case, you don’t want anyone else to have a good time?

Mickey had never had dreams. Not metaphorical ones, like plans for his life, or literal ones, not any he could ever remember. Not even nightmares when he was a kid. He closed his eyes, then he opened them, and it was morning. Easy on, easy off. 

  


Until now. Now, every night, really, every time he shut his eyes even to blink, the images that swam up were tormenting him. Scenes of things he had stupidly let himself consider possible, scenes of all the what if’s and the maybes. Scenes from someone else’s life, scenes from his own life, only from a different perspective, like someone else was watching, of all things, stupid shit. His last Little League game- he was watching himself from somewhere else on the field, watching his younger self reach into those formerly-white baseball pants and whip it out, pissing in a semi circle around a base. 

  


He watched himself in high school stealing from a local joint. Brazenly, just strolling in and filling a box. Weirdly, the perspective didn’t follow his past self, it sat behind the counter, a perspective he’d never seen before, the little notices and hand-lettered reminders all new to his view.

  


Not all the things he saw were his own life. Some were flashes of places he’d never had the courage to go. Bodies undulating to pulsing music, lights flashing in time to the bass, half naked men everywhere. It appealed to him, but he pushed that thought down, not wanting to look at it too closely.

  


The dreams had him totally off-kilter, just sort of stumbling through his daily life. On a run with his brothers, Iggy finally noticed, calling him out. They were in an old Cadillac with Jaime, waiting for a pickup. As the youngest, Mickey was in the backseat as Iggy turned to study him. 

  


“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you high right now? Cause you seem fuckin’ high.”

  


Mickey waved him off. “ ‘M not fuckin’ high. Just a lot a shit on my mind.”

  


“Is that code for women troubles? Cause when I got shit on my mind, it’s usually a woman.”

  


Mickey shrugged. Jaime, in the driver’s seat, met his eye in the rearview. Jaime had his suspicions, but Mickey knew better than to trust his oldest brother with anything personal. Jaime’s loyalties lay with Jaime, not his family, not their father, and not his business. He was a snake, but they were brothers. Half-brothers, or cousins, or whatever. So they had each other’s backs for these runs, but Mickey would never feel for Jaime how he felt for Iggy.

  


He’d grown up with Iggy always around, acting like a big brother should, or trying to. They were just as much, or as little, related as he and Jaime, but somehow it didn’t matter. Family was weird that way. 

  


Plus, Jaime was clearly planning something. He’d been cagier than usual, ready to make some big move. Mickey didn’t plan to be around for that shit, he wanted to keep his head down and- and what? Go back to the dreams? Just let himself fade into them until his body wasted away and they were all that was left? Kinda, yeah.

  


“You just needta get laid, Mickey. Problems getting over a chick? Get under a new one, that’s what I always say.”

  


“Oh, do you?” Jaime asked. “Do you say that all the time, cause I ain’t never heard you say it before. Shaddup. Both a’youse. It’s almost time.”

  


Iggy and Mickey shut up, but not before Mickey kicked the back of Iggy’s seat, and Iggy reached back to punch him in the nuts. Brotherly shit. 

  


\---

  


Iggy was a colossal moron, but sometimes he had decent ideas. Maybe if Mickey could get his dick wet, he could get a grip. Instead of gripping his dick three times a day and yanking it while he thought about tattoos, muscles, and a red happy-trail. He hadn’t jerked off this much since middle school, and it was a little embarrassing how fast he came every time he pictured Gallagher’s look of fierce concentration as he worked the tattoo gun over Mickey’s arm.

  


The house was quiet when Mickey snuck out, He had a heavy coat on, but under it, he wore only his cleanest (and tightest) jeans and a flannel, open halfway down his chest but buttoned tight at the wrists to cover his tattoo. He knew exactly where he was going: there was only one part of town where he could scratch his itch.

  


After grumbling over paying the cover and then  _ again  _ to check his coat, Mickey stood, back to the bar and surveyed the dance floor. Men of every color and shape were there, moving in sync to the music and flashing lights. It felt like another planet, like being underwater, like Mickey could breath freely for the first time in his adult life. 

  


Someone sent him a drink and he downed it without looking too closely. The alcohol burned sweetly, and Mickey grimaced at the taste, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel eyes on him, on his body and on his face. If he waited, they‘d come to him. If he went to the bathroom, they’d follow. If he headed to the alley, someone would be there, eventually. 

  


Was he ready to get this over with? That’s how he saw it, trying to make the impossible urge and neediness inside of him go away for a little while. The first time he’d come here, he thought once would be enough.

  


It wasn’t. Time and again he’d returned, trying everything Boy’s Town had to offer. Sometimes he went months between visits, sometimes only weeks. He never spoke to anyone, never accepted money or names or numbers, never hooked up with the same guy twice. 

  


A new song came on, a remix of an  [ old Jefferson Airplane song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1xKisa5Apo) , with a new thumping bassline he could feel in his bones. It didn’t make Mickey want to dance, but it made him want to move in other, close ways, with another person, let their flesh crash together, hear the slap and slam of skin… The sound kept getting louder, and just when he thought he was ready to let someone have him, Mickey’s eye happened to fall on a man, dancing in gold shorts on the other side of the room. He was up on a box, wearing this ridiculous little white tie. His body was like nothing Mickey’d ever seen- like a statue maybe. Muscles flexing everywhere, the colors of the flashing lights warming and cooling his skin by turns. At first all Mickey could see was his back and ass, flexing and shaking to the bass, then he turned.

  


It was Gallagher. His face was serious, focus inwards, even as a horde of admirers circled the bottom of the pedestal where he danced. Without realizing it, Mickey began to cross the dance floor. He wasn’t going to talk to Gallagher, fuck no. But with that tattoo on display, something about his skin was calling to Mickey, and he just wanted to see how it looked in the light, up close. Whether the freckles were brighter or darker, whether that was glitter or sweat rolling lovingly down his hard abs.

  


The song ended, and a generically handsome older man in a suit held up a clear drink. Ian had grabbed an outstretched hand, letting an anonymous man help him down. Mickey could see the guy in the suit half turn away, just for a moment, and drop  _ something  _ into the drink, before turning back and handing it back to Ian.

  


Without any consciousness of the intervening steps, Mickey found himself beside the suited man, slapping the drink to the floor where it spilled and rolled away under a table. All the eyes of the men pinned him, and Mickey wanted to shrink away, hide himself. But that urge passed in a breath as he looked up and saw the emerald eyes looking into his own. 

  


Surprise, then disgust filled them. Anger, obvious and thick in the cologne-laden air came at Mickey, and he stepped back, confusion filling him.  _ Fuck _ .

  


He’d only taken one step backwards, but Gallagher took one towards him, face twisting and jaw set. Mickey brought his hands up, trying to almost pat the air between them placatingly, but Ian kept coming.

  


“What the fuck, Mickey?”

  


He couldn’t even get a word in before the accusations started.

  


“You come out here to ruin my night? Cause I was just starting to have fun, ya know? Just because you’re a fucking closet-case, you don’t want anyone else to have a good time?”

  


“Ey, look that’s no-” he tried again, to no avail.

  


“Or what, you wanna watch me? Wanna get a good, long look at what you’re never gonna have?” Ian gestured first at the length of his body, before bringing his open palm to cover the tattoo on his chest. “It ain’t that complicated, Milkovich. I’m gay, so are you, and we’re-”

  


That’s when Mickey punched him. Whether it was hearing himself be labeled gay in a semi-public space, whether it was the fear of hearing Gallagher say out loud what Mickey himself had suspected, or just the pent up lust and aggression taking over, Mickey curled his fist and drove it into Gallagher’s midsection

  


Ian was maybe surprised by the first punch, but he rallied, slinging an arm to bring Mickey in close so he could slam his own fist into Mickey’s gut, until he was able to twist away, aiming now for the side of Gallagher’s head.

  


Mickey could hear security rushing over; the other men in the club had drawn away. All he could feel was the burning heat every time Ian landed a blow, and taste blood in his mouth. He knew he was grinning, teeth probably red and gruesome, but this was fine. Mickey understood this type of communication perfectly. The fight continued.

  


\--

  


“Get the fuck out, before I call the cops!” The bouncers managed to eject Mickey with Ian right behind him, and the cold air almost righted his mind. Almost. But the anger and now lust were still fueling the fire in his veins and Gallagher was still  _ right there _ , close enough to touch. And Mickey’s fingers longed to brush that wayward lock of red hair away, so instead he threw a punch, and the fight was back on. 

Minutes into the renewed fight, Mickey’s right ear was full of a high-pitch humming and his left hand was throbbing, every knuckle bruised, one cut across the  _ U _ tattoo on his finger. He sucked his lips into his mouth, quick-licking, and tasted blood, not a little. His old boots were less reliable on the slushy sidewalk beneath them, now that perspiration was raining down off him. They circled each other, slow, and Ian gave him that crooked half-smile, looking cocky and slightly punch-drunk, and Mickey lurched, ducking low, throwing a mismatched pair of jabs at his midsection. Ian’s oblique abdominal muscles tensed to resist the blows, and he snuck sneaky arms in and through Mickey’s elbows, tangling him, trapping and tripping one ankle, turning him, until Mickey was caught, bent, dropped, and they were where Ian wanted them, grappling on the filthy cold ground.

Ian wrestled him, wrenched him, his mouth watering and his heart thrumming hard and hot in every pulse point: temples, throat, sternum, thumb-pads. Draped himself suggestively over Mickey’s back, vining longer limbs around Mickey’s stronger ones to keep him down, on elbows and knees, with his breath heaving hard inside his back, and Ian must have been able to feel it in thudding against his belly. Ian’s ear was close enough to bite. Or his neck. But there were rules, things he shouldn’t do. Mickey rolled, caught his wrist and threw him off, growling a shout as he regained his feet. Hurled a muttered invitation to come on that sounded exactly like a threat. It was nearly over, and naturally Mickey’s mind raced to what could come after, what could come next, but he also always - wanted to win. Balled his fist, aimed in a wide arc for Ian’s lower orbital bone, dreaming of the crunch and shatter that could come, but didn’t.

Jeering clubbers and revelers stomping and half-mad around them, scattered watching as they smoked. Ian, maybe feeling like he’d lost, flexed his black and blue fingers, wiped sweat from his neck and face with his shirt before he dove back into it. If the gathered hoard notices the two leaving immediately after the fight ended - together, with kill-crazy looks in their eyes- they gave no indication of being the least bothered.

Which was fine, because what came next was a shove and pull into the alley at the back of the club, and every rule at last thrown aside as they struggled, tearing at clothing and pulling hair, teeth pressing hard to leave black-and-blue dashed circles as a weeklong reminder of a smack across the face with the back of a hand, a pinch, a punch, and the resistant grind of the bones in his wrist as it was pressed against rough block wall. The way they slapped each other’s hands away, crashed teeth together at wrong angles, licked each other’s wounds. The way Mickey groaned as he was gripped with spit-soaked fingers, the string of curses he spewed because  _ I hate you, you’re gorgeous, I want you, to hurt me. _

This was what they meant about soulmates, he realized distantly. Not that you’ll change to be loved, but that they will fit into all the weak spots of your soul, fill them in and love you anyway. 

  


\---

They didn’t fuck in the alleyway. Instead, Ian led the way back to the basement tattoo shop, unlocking the door with slightly shaking hands. What a difference a few days made. He glanced back at Mickey, seeing the fear still lighting his blue eyes in the moonlight, wondering about how much faith the man had placed in him.

That trust went both ways. Mickey stopped, turning around to meet Ian's eyes. He studied Mickey's face, searching, though he couldn’t have said for what. Mickey licked his lips slowly. Leaning forward, Ian cupped his face and kissed him cautiously. 

Mickey kissed him back, taking it up a notch with firm, full lips and the roaming touch of his tongue. This all felt as inevitable as thunder after lightning.

But Mickey’s mouth was like heat lightning, thawing warmth that eased the ache in Ian’s weary bones. Perhaps he was having the same effect on Mickey. The man pulled back to look Ian full in the face, hands dropping to his waist, as if he wanted to speak, but then changed his mind. Ian led him further in, back to one of the long black tables they used for full body pieces.

In the familiar room. Mickey held his gaze as he loosened Ian’s belt. Yeah, the house was just a few steps away, but it made sense that their first time would be here in the shop. 

Ian went to his knees as Mickey's zipper came down, nosing the material of his pants. Mickey put one hand on the wall as he got his cock out, rubbing it against Ian's lips. His tongue darted out to lick the head, hands on Mickey's thighs.

Moaning softly, Mickey pushed into his mouth. Ian opened for him, sucking eagerly, as if he wanted to make this first time for Mickey even more life-altering than it already was. He licked and sucked Mickey’s thick cock, choking himself on it as he got enough saliva going to let it slide freely, cupping and rolling his balls in the palm of one hand. When he felt them begin to draw up, betraying Mickey’s excitement, Ian pulled back.

“You done this before?”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow at him, Ian could tell, even in the dark. 

“Yeah, Gallagher. I’ve been fucked before, ok? M’ not gonna break.”

Shrugging, Ian found the lube in his pocket (what? He’d been planning to hook up with  _ someone  _ tonight) and pushed Mickey’s pants the rest of the way down. He reached back to press one slick finger against his ass, letting the tip of Mickey’s dick rest against his lips as he asked, "Can you take me?"

Biting back a moan, Mickey nodded.

“Ok-” Ian stood, and began to manhandle Mickey over the tattoo bench, pressing his chest down, stroking across his back and ass as if calming a wild animal. He let his fingers return to his hole, pressing in and withdrawing, fascinated by the way Mickey’s body accepted him. 

“Jesus, Gallagher, fuckin’ get on with it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you- just wait a sec.” Ian pressed a kiss to Mickey’s left ass cheek and began to stretch him in earnest, using two, and then three fingers, scissoring them and twisting, pressing until he felt Mickey jolt under him.

Nodding in satisfaction, Ian carefully withdrew his fingers and unzipped. His own cock was leaking with pent up desire, and he could see his hands were shaking slightly. Mickey must have felt the tremble in his fingers as he put one hand on his waist. He turned, putting a hand on Ian’s wrist. “You’re nervous.”

Ian bit his lip, suddenly uncertain.

“I wanna make this good for you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, Ian couldn’t see his face but somehow he could just tell. “I’m not a little bitch. Maybe I ain’t as experienced as you, but I’m not some porcelain doll, fuck me already!”

Then he reached back, took Ian’s dick in his warm hand and guided him against his entrance.

Ian moaned and wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist, folding over him, that strong, broad back pressed against his chest. Mickey bore down, moaning as Ian filled him, pushing in so slowly, trying to keep it together through the tight heat that grasped him. Finally, finally, he bottomed out and stayed there, just rocking against him carefully.

“Mickey,” he groaned as the smaller man moved against him.

He tried a small thrust, not sure if he could keep his own excitement in check, but Mickey met his movement, pressing back to him, urging him on with that hand reaching back. So Ian gave it to him, gave him everything, holding Mickey by the shoulder and thigh and pounding him until he heard his soulmate’s cries fill the darkness, felt the flutter of his channel as he began to come, sending Ian over the edge as well.

Ian held him close and filled him with a cry, his whole body shaking against Mickey’s.

Seconds ticked by. He didn’t want to pull out, or detach himself, but Mickey began to tap at his leg. “Yo, you ok there?”

Ian took a deep breath. “Are  _ you _ ?”

“Didn’t spontaneously combust by having a man’s dick up my ass, which is a shock.” Ian could hear the grin in his voice in the darkness. 

But then Mickey’s voice became bleak. “This can’t be a thing, though, ya know? It can only happen this once.”

Ian reared back, wincing as his sensitive dick slid out of Mickey, cum dribbling out. Mickey turned on one elbow to peer at him, wincing at Ian’s wounded expression.

“S’not like that. I wasn’t fuckin’  _ using  _ you or anything. and we didn’t make any promises. You know who I am, you know my dad. He’d murder me himself if he found out.”

“I know,” Ian said flatly, because he did know. That was the whole reason they’d met: Mickey’s fear of his father’s homophobia. But somehow, he’d thought that knowing who and what they were to each would change things.

Mickey flipped over and sat up, bringing him to the same height as Ian, standing before him. “Look- I-” He stopped, chewing his lip. “I wish it was different, ok? I wish soulmates- I wish that shit made a difference.”

“It does to me.” Ian’s voice was low but firm. 

Mickey leaned forward, until their foreheads rested together. “I know, man. I know. But I don’t wanna die. I just fuckin’ found you.”

It shouldn’t have made Ian’s heart leap in his chest but the rough confession did just that. He kissed Mickey, taking the time again to taste and feel everything, hands sneaking to pull Mickey closer, shifting into the cradle of his thick thighs like he was home. Mickey’s mouth followed his, not increasing the urgency or demanding anything, only letting Ian learn him. When he pulled his face back to breath, Ian panted against his neck, just inhaling the smell of his soulmate.

“You want me to kill him?” It was a mostly idle threat. Killing Terry Milkovich wasn’t a great idea, as plans went.

“How? You wanna let him catch us fucking? Cause that might give him a heart attack.”

Ian paused, considering. “Or he might attack you.”

There was a moment, and Ian knew. He  _ knew _ . “He’s hurt you before, hasn’t he?”

Mickey’s shoulders shrugged, his cheek still pressed to Ian’s face. 

“How bad?”

“Bad enough,” came the quiet reply.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he had a soulmate, then by definition he had a soul. And if he had a soul, well, shit. All sorts of things were possible.

They talked a little more, before Ian had to walk away.

If he listened to anymore of what Mickey had been through- the abuse he kept shrugging off as just how his family was.

“Mick, that’s  _ not  _ how family works. They’re supposed to feed you, protect you, love you. No matter what.”

Mickey was smoking, the cherry red of the tip of his cigarette the only thing Ian could see clearly, though he could hear the deep exhalation and smell the smoke.

“That’s a fuckin’ fairy tale, Gallagher. My best bet, Terry drops dead in a few more years and whoever takes over is marginally more progressive. Or just dumb enough to be easier to hide from. Then the next one, and the next one, forever, until I can’t take it anymore.”

Ian noted Mickey didn’t say until he died. Mickey’d said until he couldn’t take it anymore. Ian was well versed at reading between those particular lines.

“Did you ever think of being the one to take over, after Terry? Maybe being the one pulling the strings would be-”

“-Ain’t you been listening?” Mickey cut him off. “I’m not some high-up officer in Terry’s private army. I’m a conscript, basically a prisoner. They’ll never forget that, none of ‘em.”

“But… you’re smart. Can’t you-” Ian’s voice trailed off at the impossibility of his ideas. They were all soapy plans, constructed from every action movie and mob show he’d seen. Not real life.

“No, I fucking well can’t.”

A quiet fell between them, and Mickey finished his cigarette, scratching the butt out on the sole of his boot next to where they sat on the floor of the back room of Phoenix, Ink. Ian glanced at his watch- past 2am. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew what he could do to push the sadness out of the dark workroom. He pulled Mickey, manhandling him a little, until he was straddling Ian’s thighs, peering quizzically.

They fucked again, more slowly, Mickey riding Ian’s lap, urged on by Ian’s hot hands on his ass, cupping and grasping, until Mickey threw his head back and pulsed wetly between their bodies. Ian fell asleep, after that, just closed his eyes and lay curled protectively around Mickey’s body.

When he woke up a few hours later, cold and stiff on the shop floor, he was alone. He tried not to be disappointed: he understood intellectually what Mickey had said. But the elation of finding his soulmate couldn’t be denied. It was like a speedball: H and coke together, the joy of finding him heightened by the pain of knowing they couldn’t be together. 

That was just one more problem for Ian to overcome. He reminded himself of all the others he’d overcome, his family, his bipolar, his past relationships. This was his fucking soulmate: no bigger or better reason to put his mind to work on the problem. He snuck back into the house, rather than face Fiona’s questions and cloying sympathy, showering quickly and redressing before heading back down to work for the day. He was glad he didn’t have any appointments that needed the back room; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be there without immediately reliving everything that had happened the night before.

\---

Mickey had done his own sneaking, cautiously avoiding the squeaky porch step and easing the door open, peeking into the living room to see who was where before he entered the house. 

It was oddly quiet, maybe the only time his house was ever quiet was this 4am window. He made his way down the hallway, releasing a breath as he swung his bedroom door open, expecting to be able to hide in there. But no.

Jaime was sitting on his bed, hands resting on his knees. Waiting.  _ What was this, was he- _ Mickey didn’t know what to think. He didn’t have to wonder for long; Jaime’s eyes immediately looked him up and down with scorn. 

“Yer out late.” It wasn’t a question, it was pure accusation. Jaime’s voice dripped with evil implications, all the worst suggestions about Mickey from his family there in the subtext.

Mickey did his best, he lied quickly. “Wasn’t stickin’ around for a bitch to make me breakfast. Gives ‘em the wrong idea.”

Jaime just stared at him with Terry’s green eyes and oversized, lumpen nose. He wasn’t buying shit, but that wasn’t why he was here, apparently. Waiting all night in Mickey’s room was creepy, but Mickey wasn’t surprised. Jaime had that dogged perseverance to pick a plan and hunt it until it turned his way. 

“Gonna be home tonight?”

“The fuck else would I be?” Mickey was confused and wary. Jaime never gave two shits about his whereabouts. 

“Could be, there’s some action going down.”

“Yeah?” He kept his voice disinterested, casual. Action going on  _ here?  _

Jaime stood, stepping towards where Mickey still lingered in the doorway. “I need to know. If you’re here, if you’d… get involved.”

“Involved in what, Jaime? You’re being fuckin’ weird, just spit it out.”

“Terry’s losing his touch. That pickup that went bad, that’s on him. We need a new first.”

Mickey crossed his arms, listening. Not letting his face betray anything. 

“I got an idea it should be me, and that you won’t be too broken up if Terry’s outta the picture. But I need to know you ain’t gonna make a move on him in the meantime, or me.”

Loyalty. There wasn’t any in his family, only a messy web of secrets and obligations. Mickey knew trading Terry for Jaime wouldn’t solve all his problems, and if Terry caught wind of it… But it was a chance. For the little fluttering thing in his chest to live outside of its very small, dark cage. 

“Fuck no, I don’t give a shit. I’ll hide out somewhere else tonight, give you some room to work. Just don’t fuck that shit up. You do this right, and I’ll support you. You fuck it up, and I’ll stand next to Terry while he kicks you to death, my skin depends on it, ya know?”

Jaime nodded slowly, and then pushed past Mickey into the hallway. He made very sure no parts of their bodies or clothing touched.  _ In case the homo shit was catching.  _

“Ey, any specific time I should  _ not  _ be home?”

Jaime thought for a moment, considering how much to share. Mickey knew he already had a full-fleshed out plan. Heck, Jaime probably had a plan to kill Mickey in his bedroom if he’d objected. “Nine.”

“Yeah, ok.” Mickey gave him a half-assed salute. “ Щасти.”

He hid out for the night.  _ Not  _ at the tattoo parlor, no matter how tempting it had been to pick the lock or force the door. There was some sort of internal tugging, a thread of want that only had one message- get closer to Gallagher. He couldn’t start giving in to that shit now. Jaime’s attempted coup was only that- an attempt. It didn’t mean anything, certainly not safety. If Mickey started giving in to these tugs and longings now, he’d be at the behest of every bitch-ass feeling that came his way, including the impossible ones. The ones that ended up with him dead, with Ian dead, with him killing Ian or vice versa. 

No, Mickey had a number of spots for this type of night. If it wasn’t fucking winter, he’d be on the roof of an abandoned building, smoking and drinking all night amidst the crumbling cement. Tonight he started at the Alibi, stayed there till closing at 1am, then moved on to the nearly-all night strip joint, “Obsessions Gentleman’s Club.” Place looked like a house, all tan siding and normal-ass windows, until you got inside and it was tits and ass, wall to wall. Already a little drunk, not totally wasted, Mickey found himself a barstool at one end of the bar, and put down a twenty. The bartender was an off-duty dancer, wearing a teal sparkly g-string and matching bra. A little tag that was bigger than her underwear said her name was “Destiny.”  _ Fat-fuckin’-chance. _

He could see the top edge of a tattoo peeking out of her left bra cup, but had no interest in exploring further.

“Beer.”

“You wanna draft or bottle?” She leaned on the bar, resting her breasts on the wooden top. Mickey could see a spot of someone’s spilled drink seep up into the thin material on her chest. Fuckin’ unsanitary. 

“Beer,” he repeated more slowly.

She took his money and gave him a pint, correctly intuiting that he didn’t want her company.

Over the next three hours, he slowly and steadily drank his way through the rest of the cash in his pocket until 4am hit and the manager began to clear the suckers out.

“Show’s over boys, the girls need their rest. Go home, kiss your wives and say hi to the kids.”

With some effort, Mickey levered himself up from the bar, deciding he needed to drop some weight before he began to walk home. In the bathroom, hewas just about to empty his bladder, fully anticipating the relief, when someone stood at the urinal next to him.

It was some young business-type guy, ostensibly doing the same, tie loosely hanging from his neck. Or so Mickey thought. When he opened his eyes, he caught the guy staring at his dick. He spun away, tucking his dick in and asking, “Yo, the fuck you think you’re doing?”

“You’re a- a good looking dude. You wanna- wanna do me a - a favor? Lemme blow you.” The young man was slurring and swaying on his feet, but the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable. 

A year ago, fuck, a week ago, Mickey would have jumped at a chance like this. No strings attached, an easy way to scratch the itch that plagued him. Now, the thought of the other man blowing him, even touching him, made Mickey’s skin crawl and his soulmate tattoo pulse like a fever.

“Get the fuck outta here with that shit.” Mickey finished zippering and hurried to the door, not forgetting the expletive as he left. “Fucking fag.”

He tried hard not to think as he walked through the cold street, the first rays of the sun beginning to stream between the buildings. Why  _ hadn’t  _ he let that queer suck him off? Did having a soulmate mean he’d never be able to fuck anyone else, ever again? That couldn’t be right; plenty of people cheated on their soulmates. He pushed up his sleeve despite the cold air, looking at his tattoo as he walked. Future. His whole life he’d been so sure he didn’t have one, then his tattoo had proven it. “ No Future .” Now, one tall, goofy-ass redhead had fallen into his lap and his life and he had, for the first time he could remember, if not a plan, a glimmer of hope. A whisper, that maybe he wasn’t fucked for life. 

If he had a soulmate, then by definition he had a soul. And if he had a soul, well, shit. All sorts of things were possible. 

He was at his own house, finally. It was quiet, only the occasional car passing by and the hum of the power lines overhead. The sky was clear, a purpley-blue bruise color that hinted at clarity. When he went inside, his whole life could change. Until then Terry was both dead, and not dead. He was both free, and not free.

Like that  [ cat ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schr%C3%B6dinger%27s_cat#:~:text=In%20quantum%20mechanics%2C%20Schr%C3%B6dinger's%20cat,may%20or%20may%20not%20occur.) , he mused. The dead cat in the box. Going inside would make it certain, but the risk. He paused, just watching his breath puff into the air like a dragon smoking. How long could he stay out here and wait? 

A long groan from inside the house decided him and he leapt up the stairs as gracefully as he could after a night of drinking and no sleep. Which wasn’t graceful at all, and he nearly tripped and busted his ass on the broken step, but still. He tried.

\---

The living room was an abattoir. One of those places that’s the last place cuddly lil’ farm animals like baby cows ever see. There was a spray of blood up one wall and fully onto the ceiling. The couch had a burning hole in the back, and the coffee table, as shitty as it had been, was now kindling. Kindling that was currently on fire. Jaime stood at the center of it all, in one of those moon suits, usually worn by CSI’s and assholes who didn’t like it when you sneezed on ‘em. 

His father lay in a pool of blood, clearly dead. His eyes had that filmy grayness that people usually covered up, if they cared. Jaime didn’t care. He had a bone saw in one hand, and a half-full trash bag in the other. 

They stared at each other. Jaime, in the middle of his post-murder cleanup, Mickey wasn’t sure what the move was. If he did the wrong thing, he knew full well Jaime would be on him, and he’d be in a garbage bag in short order, limbs mixed with his father’s. Which was unappealing on a variety of levels.

He raised his hands slowly, trying to show he meant no harm. “Hey…”

Jaime still hadn’t even blinked. “Hi.”

“You, uh, need anything?” Like stock in clorox, or the number of a good lawyer?

“A few more hours. Get lost.” 

Mickey spun on his heel, feeling lighter than he could remember. Terry was disappearing, the paternal shackles dissolving in the bleach he could smell in the house. That gave him a thought, and he turned again and slid in the door. Jaime’s look was less deer-in-headlights, and more annoyed-older-brother. Or maybe interrupted-serial-killer.

“One thing, you mind?” Mickey reached down and started to undo his belt buckle. Jaime just shrugged.

“‘M not cleaning up your shit, if that’s what you have in mind.”

“Close, but no.” Jaime stepped back, correctly intuiting what Mickey intended to do.

Mickey pulled out his soft dick and emptied his bladder slowly and deliberately, covering the body of his father in piss. It felt amazing, like the first piss after a night of drinking, when your bladder’s so full you can feel it in your ass, jiggling when you walk. The rivulets covered Terry’s face and clothing, soaking them, making the tufts of grey hair stick to his face, even running into his eyes and open mouth. 

Shaking off the last few drops, Mickey tucked himself away. “Thanks. I owed him that.”

“Two hours, Mickey. I need two more hours.”

He nodded, ducked into his room and packed a bag. Just some clean boxers and tee shirts. Grabbed his coat, shrugged it on over his tan hoodie.

Back in the living room, Jaime eyed him cooly. “You leavin’ town? They’ll think you did it.”

“Nah, just givin’ you space for the takeover. Might get messy. I’ll back your play, but I don’t gotta watch.” Watching Jaime take down their uncles, cousins, and maybe even brothers would be tedious and painful. It was also possible someone would try and throw Mickey’s name in the hat for successor. Which, even though he couldn’t win and didn’t want it, he would have to fight his way out of. Messy.

“Good to know.” Jaime still hadn’t returned to his task, was just watching Mickey in the doorway, hesitating. “You queer?”

Mickey gulped, unable to respond immediately. “How- what-”

“Tattoo. Saw it, saw the cover up, figured. S’only a few reasons to get your soulmate tattoo covered. Look, I don’t fuckin’ care who you bang, but you gotta figure your own shit out. Covering it up seems like a good way to die alone and pathetic.”

“Oh. Uh- Yeah, you don’t gotta worry.”

They exchanged another of those heavy, reptilian glances that held so much that was unspeakable between them, then Mickey left. It was still early, much too early to go somewhere. He looked up and down the cold street. 

Terry was dead. 

He was free as he had ever been, since the first time he drew breath and Terry claimed his son, Mickey was fucking free. Not of his family, but enough. He started to walk, then shifted into a  [ run ](https://www.sho.com/site/image-bin/images/408_5_3410416/408_5_3410416_01_1024x640.jpg) , one thought on his mind.

Phoenix. 

Gallagher was his Phoenix.

It was only 7 am when he got to the basement door, so he jimmied the lock and went to sit on the roller stool Ian had used for all their sessions. He rolled around, playing a little. Looked at the art on the walls, flipped through a look-book of Gallagher’s work. His tattoo wasn’t in there, obviously, but there was a little sketch on loose paper, tucked in the back. 

It was his tattoo, but it  [ _ wasn’t _ ](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1XCSc3iOvZJWAQxai1hCnMyTxoTjFNNiU/view?usp=sharing) . The child was still there, but instead of being alone on a broken street, he sat by the sea, the line that had once been a crack in the facade behind him or a broken balloon line was now a fishing line, as he sat on a starlit shore, filled with fantastic luminescent butterflies. Gallagher had kept some of the text, the garish  FUTURE , but eliminated the depressing  NO , changing to  MY .

It was different. It was beautiful.  _ Was this how Ian had seen him, from the beginning? _

My future.

_ Had he known? Or just hoped?  _ Mickey slammed the look-book shut as he heard a key in the shop’s door. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be Fiona, she looked like she knew every time he’d shit and not washed his hands.

The light shining in was the first thing Mickey saw, it made the person framed in the doorway look as if they were on fire, just a black outline surrounded by the sun’s rays.

Then that red hair gleamed, and Mickey knew. He grinned, heart full.

“Mick? Is that you? How’d you-”

“C’mere,” Mickey interrupted, standing to cross the room to meet Ian and pulling his face down to a kiss. 

There would be time later, to talk. To explain, to listen, and to plan. 

But this time, this scrap of moment stolen from the world was for them alone. Alone, and together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two fics ending in one week? Whatever shall I do with all this free time?  
> (Big Bang Fic, work my way through the unending list of fics waiting to be written, sequelae...)  
> Thank you for coming on this little journey with me!


End file.
